


Get Well Soon

by buffys



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Hospitals, M/M, Other, Takes place a few days before Miguel wakes up, Warning for Hawk's potty mouth, Wuthering Heights as mandatory reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffys/pseuds/buffys
Summary: Hawk had learned a new word the first day he came to visit Miguel. "Burst suppression". A period where the brain was mostly quiet. Mostly still. Mostly dead. It facilitated rest and natural healing was what Miguel's doctor had told him, smiling kindly, her blond hair framing her tan face, serving to accentuate its roundness.He hadn't known what to say in response. So he'd just said, "Cool," and waited by Miguel's bedside. Hoping to see something. Some eye movements. A finger twitch. A furrowed brow. Some flicker of recognition. Of awareness.
Relationships: Miguel Diaz & Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Get Well Soon

Third period English was about as dull as it got. They were reading _Wuthering Heights_ and Hawk wanted to put a pen through his eye, he was so goddamn bored by it all. 

The seat next to his was empty. It was where Miguel used to sit. Before Keene kicked him off a balcony. Before Miguel fractured some vertebrae. Before he got put under a medically induced coma, so his chances of making it through an operation were higher than they'd be if he was awake. On account of the brain swelling. Because the diuretics hadn't been enough. 

Hawk had learned a new word the first day he came to visit Miguel. "Burst suppression". A period where the brain was mostly quiet. Mostly still. Mostly dead. It facilitated rest and natural healing was what Miguel's doctor had told him, smiling kindly, her blond hair framing her tan face, serving to accentuate its roundness. 

He hadn't known what to say in response. So he'd just said, "Cool," and waited by Miguel's bedside. Hoping to see something. Some eye movements. A finger twitch. A furrowed brow. Some flicker of recognition. Of awareness. 

He hadn't seen any of that. Just Miguel's careful, rhythmic breathing. Heard the soft whistle that came out his mouth on every exhale. The shallow rise of his chest, synched with his heart monitor. 

Staring at his face for the first time in a long time, he’d felt off. He didn't make a habit of looking people directly in the eyes, mostly because it felt too invasive, but also because it meant someone was looking back into his. Staring at Miguel's pale, splotchy face had felt like staring into some funeral pyre. A slow burning. 

It’d felt like 'goodbye'. And Hawk didn't really do those anymore. 

•••

After school, Hawk went to the hospital. 

He hated hospitals. The sterile, cleaning supplies smell. The citrusy burn in his nostrils. The long, dimly lit hallways that seemed to stretch on forever, like some nightmare corn maze. The impatient front desk workers, struggling to balance a load of beige manilla folders — patient names neatly slapped onto the tabs with stickers from some malfunctioning label maker — and Christmas-themed mugs filled with shit-tasting Folgers coffee.

The sight of people as pale and transient as ghosts. Slowly fading away into their hospital bed sheets.

Typically, he spent at least an hour at Miguel's elbow, either eating the packed lunch his mom had made for him that morning — that he'd purposefully neglected to eat because he didn't want people to know his mom still packed his lunches — or completing homework assignments. 

Today, he spent twenty minutes in front of a vending machine on Miguel’s floor. Debating what to get. Trying to prolong the moment where he walked the twelve feet to his door and peered into his room. Just to see him still lying motionless in bed. 

He forced himself to pick. Convinced that this kind of dillydallying was for pussies. Standing in front of a vending machine, too scared to move, was hardly striking first or hard? Right?

Hawk inserted a crumbled up dollar bill, dug through his black Nike tracksuit pants for some spare change, and came out with twenty-five cents. Enough to buy a pack of Orbit gum. Spearmint-flavored.

He self-consciously brought a hand up to his face, cupped his palm over his mouth and breathed into it a couple of times. Tentatively brought his hand up to his nose and sniffed. Pulled a face. 

It wasn’t like Miguel would care. Miguel was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. He wouldn’t care if Hawk had shit-for-breath. 

And yet. 

Hawk slammed his fist against the right buttons and watched as the little spring uncoiled and pushed the pack of gum out of its place. Watched it fall to the floor of the vending machine and get swept out of a chute. Heard it thunk into the space behind the black flap. 

He reached in and snagged the gum pack out. Impatiently yanked off the plastic wrap, opened the pack, took out a stick of gum, unwrapped the foil from around it, and then shoved the stick into his mouth. Chewed like it was a matter of life-or-death. 

Then he walked those fifteen feet. 

•••

Miguel still had that scary, deathtrap looking brace around his head. Hawk winced at the sight, trying not to show how much it bothered him. 

He’d gotten a pass from Ms. Diaz, who’d given him a bleary, tired once over before nodding for him to go ahead. She’d still been wearing her blue hospital scrubs and her hair’d started falling out of the thick braid it’d been pulled back in. Exhaustion was evident all over her face. In the dark lines under her eyes and the shakiness in her hands. 

Thinking about her he just got more pissed. Staring at Miguel from the chair he’d pulled up to his bedside, all he could think about was the way the authorities still hadn't caught Keene. How Keene was still running around outside, a free man, while Miguel was gradually fading away, sinking further and further into his head. 

The TV in his room was tuned to Disney Channel. Hawk scoffed around his wad of gum -- how old did they think Miguel was -- and swiped the remote from the table beside Miguel's bed. Flicked through images until he landed on a local news channel that was talking about a squirrel infestation in some little kid's treehouse. They'd sent out a reporter to the house, and were interviewing "friends of the family, rocked by this recent devastation."

"God, what a bunch of idiots," Hawk huffed, tossing the remote back onto Miguel's bedside table where he'd found it.

When he drowned out the noise of the TV, the emptiness -- the loneliness --of the room became immediately apparent. Aside from the cards and stuffed animals on the table -- which, whatever -- there wasn't much to look at or much to do.

So he stared at Miguel instead. Watched the subtle twitches in his face and chest that indicated he was still alive.

His eyes traveled to his shoulder, and then down his arm, to the spot where the IV'd been inserted underneath his skin. Taped over. 

Nausea swept over his body like a wave. Even after spending over ten hours getting his hawk done, he still wasn't used to them. The fact that he'd chosen to get it done on his back instead of his stomach like he'd initially planned had helped. Not being able to see the actual needle continually pierce his skin. 

The moon-turned-grim reaper on his chest had been another story. For that one he'd just closed his eyes and covered his ears with some noise-cancelling headphones. So he wouldn't have to see the needle or hear the buzz of the machine. But the moments where his eyes would flutter open, immediately latch onto the tattooing device -- rounded instrument filled with pointy fish teeth -- he'd gotten overwhelmed with nausea and fear. Ended up passing out at least six times over the course of twenty minutes.

Looking at the IV attached to Miguel's arm now just reminded him of his earliest memories. Of staring up at some glaring light overhead, feeling sharp pinpricks, pulling, tugging, at the skin above his lip. Slicing away. Rearranging. Like his face was some droopy oil painting. 

His mom had waited twenty-two months to do the operation, too scared to let her baby into some operating room. Too scared to be separated from him, even for an hour. 

Sometimes... Sometimes Hawk thought about how different his life would be if she hadn't waited.If she'd gone and done the operation three months after he'd been born, like the doctors had recommended. 

He wondered if he'd still remember the pain. The fear welling up in his chest. The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, drumming away, every time he looked at a needle. 

He wondered if the scar wouldn't be as noticeable. As awful. A curl of red, upraised skin, perpetually inflamed. Like the operation had just happened. 

Mostly he didn't like to think about it at all. That was why coming to the ICU to stare at Miguel's unmoving figure hidden underneath off-white hospital bed sheets was something he was occasionally reluctant to do. Which made him feel like an awful friend. And like he had to somehow make up for this mental betrayal through other means. 

Which just circled back to him coming around even more.

He picked his backpack off the floor, unzipped it, and rooted around until he found his library copy of _Wuthering Heights_. Pulled it out alongside the sack lunch his mom'd packed for him in the morning. That he'd decided to put off eating until he saw Miguel.

That way it'd feel like before -- him, eating his lunch, trying not to stare at Miguel from across the cafeteria table. Smiling into his pb&j sandwich every time Miguel made some lame joke. Miguel, eating plantain chips, trying and failing to capture them in his mouth after he'd tossed them up in the air. Usually going off to class with some still hidden in the hood of his jacket.

He grinned at the memory. Swallowed that wave of nausea down -- along with his gum, shit -- and looked at Miguel's face. Tried not to be disappointed when his eyelids didn't flutter open like he always hoped they would. Like he somehow sensed he was here. 

"How's it going, dude? Still hanging in there?" 

He felt like an idiot. Talking to someone who couldn't talk back. It'd been two weeks, and that feeling had never really gone away.

Miguel's nurse had assured him Miguel could hear the stuff he told him, even when it seemed like he couldn't. That even when his fingers, his eyes, his mouth weren't moving, he could still hear every little whisper. And that the stuff he told him, no matter how dumb it was, could be something good. Something that'd remind him to fight whatever was keeping him trapped inside. Something that would help him dig his way out. 

Hawk clutched the book in his hand and ran a thumb down its worn spine. 

"School's started. It sucks ass. Total snooze fest. Everyone's just as annoying and stupid as they were before summer break. Not that that's some kind of surprise."

He idly flicked through the pages, liking the texture of the paper against his fingertips. 

"Sensei Kreese is teaching us some cool shit. We got to jump over a burning pit in the woods a week ago. Bert almost fell in, but I think he coasted on a strong gust of wind and just barely made it out on the other side."

He tapped his feet on the ground. Bit at his fingernails. A habit he'd tried to stop over a year ago. A habit he'd picked up again not long after the schoolyard fight. 

"I think my mom's starting to suspect something, considering I refused to go to the pool or to the beach with her and dad all Summer." Hawk grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I told her I'm having some body image issues. Seems like she bought it, but it was a close call. Now she's been pushing these self-esteem pamphlets my way, which is kind of annoying, but whatever. Better than her knowing about the tattoos."

The room was so quiet Hawk could hear the gust of air being pushed into the room from the AC above his head. The cards on Miguel's bedside table fluttered.

"Speaking of tattoos, I was thinking of getting another one. Riiiight--" Hawk pulled his left shirt sleeve up, showing off his biceps. Tapped at the muscle. "--here. I can't decide if I want another hawk or maybe like some wolf howling at the sky. Maybe Godzilla just, like, totally annihilating some buildings. I don't know. Guess I don't really care as long as it looks badass."

Miguel's heart monitor continued its steady beeping. Hawk looked away. Pushed his shirtsleeve down and started flicking through the book. 

"We're reading this lame ass book for English called _Wuthering Heights_. You've probably read it already. 'Cause you're kind of a dork like that. No offense. But I've seen those anime drawings in your room," he said, smirking, leaning forward like he was going to flick Miguel on the shoulder, like he did when he said something cool and wanted to capture his attention. His fingers faltered about an inch away. He stared at Miguel's still expression. His closed eyes. The purple bruising underneath them.

He cleared his throat. Leaned back into his seat instead. Stared down at a page he'd read through with the class. That he'd highlighted some lines in. Just because he knew it'd come in handy later when they had to write some dumb essay.

He laughed -- a thin, strained thing.

"Like, just listen to this shit, "'so he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.'" 

Hawk gave Miguel a dramatic pause. Enough space to fill with his own input like he usually did. Usually with some high-pitched maniacal laugh, followed by some nerdy and insightful reminder to be nicer.

The silence was all-encompassing. 

"Like, just gag me with a spoon, right?" 

Hawk shuffled around some more. Scratched the side of his head. 

"I don't know. What do you think?" 

One of the Get Well Soon cards on the bedside table fell over. Slid off and floated to the floor. 

Miguel's chest gradually rose and fell. His fingers lied still by his side, on top of his covers. 

He looked like a marble statue. 

"Yeah," Hawk said, quiet. "Me too."


End file.
